


once upon a midnight dreary.

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Blood and Gore, Experimental Style, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Character Death, Organized Crime, Reverse Chronology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 11:11:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3607980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glenn loses his job six days into the new year.  He sends out application after application, but when his bank account runs dry, he borrows money from an acquaintance, just to get him through until he finds another job.  </p><p>It nearly turns out to be the biggest mistake of his life.  But it's a mistake that ends up being fixed months later, in an alley on the outskirts of the city. </p><p>In this alley, Glenn meets Daryl Dixon.</p><p>(two storylines, one moving forward and one moving back, converging on the event that forever changes Glenn's life)</p>
            </blockquote>





	once upon a midnight dreary.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lizzicleromance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizzicleromance/gifts), [Psmith73](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psmith73/gifts).



> this is the first Daryl/Glenn story I've even thought about writing in nearly a year and I have to say, I've missed them. story title borrowed from [The Raven](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178713) by Edgar Allen Poe.
> 
> this is unbeta'ed by anyone but me, so if you spot anything, let me know!

Daryl Dixon has the face of someone you would not want to encounter in a dark alley.

It's a face that's well known to those who move in the seedier circles of the city; too long hair, dark eyes, sharp cheekbones framed by stubble more gray than brown and a scowling mouth with cracked lips that are usually wrapped around a cigarette. He never looks well-rested. He doesn't look like the kind of person to suffer from emotions like remorse or sadness, let alone happiness or ecstasy.

And yet, it's not this face that is capable of rendering the hardest of criminals to blubbering messes.

It's the face of the man standing behind Daryl.

\- 

Glenn loses his job six days into the new year.

The pizzeria that he works at as a delivery boy abruptly shutters, with no warning. There's whispers that the owners have cancer and if that's true, Glenn doesn't blame them for shutting things down. Still, some warning would have been nice.

But there's dozens of other pizza places dotted across Atlanta. There has to be one that's looking for a part-time delivery boy, one who will pick up dropped shifts with a minimal amount of complaining.

There isn't.

Glenn sends out application after application. He prints out a dozen resumes, then two dozen, then three. He calls almost every restaurant in the phone book and gets hung up on a few times. Sure, there are a few places that seem promising but, inevitably, as soon as they get talking about things, Glenn discovers that they're solely looking for full-time employees. He declines, hangs up the phone and scratches another number off his list.

January turns into February. He keeps attending classes, he keeps printing resumes and his bank account keeps declining. 

His parents have money. All it would take is a simple phone call to have it transferred into his account. Except that isn't strictly true. All it would take is a phone call, filled with stern lecturing from his father and muttered asides from his mother and a promise to pay it all back once he finds a real job. If Glenn wanted to grovel, he would have stayed in Michigan.

There has to be a job out there, somewhere. There has to be.

+

The water coming out of the tap is a murky gray color and smells like sulfur. But it's warm and it's successfully removing the stains from Glenn's hands, so that's the important part. The sink is already rust stained, so the blood blends right in. 

Daryl and Merle are in the next room. They're hollering at each other so loudly that Glenn can pick out every word they're saying, even over the sound of water splashing into the sink.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing, Daryl? Do you know how much money that asshole was making us?”

“Merle, he was stealing from us!” Daryl yells. That's followed by a dull thud, which sounds an awful lot like a fist slamming into a wall. “If you actually gave a fuck about something besides meth, you'd know that we did-”

“Again with this _we_ shit!” Merle's laugh is a horrible sound; it's more of a wheeze than anything, ruined by years of smoking. “Daryl, you talk about that dog-eater like you've been attached at the hip since fucking birth.”

In the bathroom, Glenn rolls his eyes and continues to scrub underneath his fingernails. It's all more of the same, right down to the racial slurs. There's no skirting around the issue: Merle Dixon is a complete idiot. He's an idiot and a bigot and he wouldn't know sound business practices even if someone beat them into him. If Glenn didn't know any better, he would think that Merle was deliberately trying to run the Dixon family into the goddamn dust.

But no, it's not deliberate. He's just that dumb.

Still, no matter what Merle hollers at Daryl in the middle of the night, he plays a completely different tune when he needs Glenn's help. At those times, he keeps his racist nicknames to himself. Instead, he just drops a wad of cash into Glenn's hand, in exchange for his services. Although Glenn has more money than he could ever possibly use, even though he wants nothing more than to spit in Merle Dixon's face and tell him to go fuck himself, he always takes the cash. He always does what Merle asks of him.

He doesn't do it for the money and he certainly doesn't do it for Merle. He does it for Daryl.

By the time he's scrubbed his hands nearly raw, the yelling in the other room has stopped. He turns the water off for a few moments and holds his hands up towards the light, splaying his fingers. He turns them every which way, examining every crease. Once he's satisfied that he's scrubbed off every last bit of blood, he dries his hands and turns the water back on, as hot as he can stand.

His hands may be clean, but his face is still a complete write-off.

-

Glenn's account runs dry in the first week of March. 

He's been trying to keep track of his spending, but there was no way that he could put off his rent or bills. So while he still has a roof over his head for the rest of the month, his food supply dwindles daily and there's no way that he can put gas in his car.

It's a good thing the weather is warm and he's only a few miles from campus.

He manages to find a ten dollar bill while he's tweaking his resume for the dozenth time, shoved down between the couch cushions. He spends it all on packages of noodles that he shoves in the pantry, alongside half a dozen cans of soup and a few other dusty things that he's had since he moved in.

It better be enough. It _has_ to be enough.

The next day, he has a meeting with three other students that he's supposed to be doing a group project with. The only problem is that two of them cancel at the last minute, after he's already made the trek to campus with his laptop. Thankfully, the other guy still comes, which means they can at least get a little bit of work done.

Glenn doesn't really know the guy all too well; he's an older man named Henry, mid-forties, with thick black hair that's staring to turn gray. He's only a few classes away from finishing the degree he abandoned nearly twenty years ago. Somehow, that line of conversation ends with Glenn mentioning his money troubles. As soon as he spits the words out, he tries to take them back; it's not exactly anyone's business and besides, he doesn't want the guy to think he's trying to find sympathy.

Henry gets quieter after that. Once they finish doing what they can for the project, he looks up over the edge of his laptop and clears his throat.

"I can lend you the money."

"What? No," Glenn mutters, shoving his laptop into his bag. "No, man, it's fine. I'll be fine."

"If you can't pay your rent, you'll be out on the streets," Henry says. "And trust me, the homeless shelters in this city are not somewhere you want to be. If you don't want to ask your parents for it, I can lend you the money. It's really not a big deal."

"What's the catch?" Glenn asks warily. There _has_ to be a catch.

"No catch," Henry says. "Just pay me back when you can. A little bit at a time's fine." Alarm bells are still going off in Glenn's head but frankly, he's desperate. He has just over a month left in his degree and he's already set a deadline for himself.

July 1st. If he hasn't found a job by July 1st, then he's going to swallow his pride and move back to Michigan. But until then, he needs to survive somehow.

"Are you sure?" he asks tentatively, trying to read Henry's face, to find any bad intentions or nuances in his expression. "Are you actually sure?"

"Yes," Henry says firmly. "I was in your position once and I want to give back. Besides, you seem like a smart kid. How much money do you need?"

+

"That table's going to collapse."

"No, it ain't." Glenn snorts and looks over at the table again. It's piled high with stacks of bills that they'll be taking to the launderer's in a few minutes, whenever Daryl finishes with his smoke.

"Whatever you say," he says, raising his hands in surrender. The table creaks ominously as Daryl adds another stack to it, ash falling from his cigarette. It creaks _again_ when Daryl adds the last bundle of bloodstained bills to the pile. This time, Daryl actually turns and glares at Glenn, who's stretched out on a couch on the other side of the room.

"It's _not_ going to fucking break," Daryl mutters. Glenn just shrugs.

"If you say so."

Glenn's right, of course; the table does break, but only later, after they've come back from dropping the money off. They're hardly through the door before Daryl shoves him backwards, ripping the buttons off Glenn's suit jacket. Glenn doesn't mind; Daryl's the one who paid for the damn thing. If he wants to tear the buttons off, that's his prerogative. Glenn's just leaned back against the table and reached for Daryl's collar when the table collapses into a heap of splintered wood. Thankfully, Daryl's grip on Glenn's hip keeps him from falling backwards.

"I told you," Glenn says. "I knew that was-"

"Shut up," Daryl growls, "for fuck's sake." He's not actually pissed; when Daryl's angry, he doesn't speak. He goes silent and his mouth grows tight and thunderstorms brew in his eyes.

"Make me," Glenn says with a grin.

Daryl does.

-

Glenn finally gets a job near the end of April. It's just another part-time delivery-boy position with a newly-opened pizza place, but it's a job nonetheless. It means that he'll be able to start saving up his own money again, that he'll be able to pay off the thousand dollar loan Henry gave him. 

Except things don't go that way.

After they hand in their group assignment, Henry stops coming to class. Glenn sends him a few texts, but he never answers those either. Finally, the day Glenn receives the news about his job, he tries to call Henry, only for the call to go straight to automated voicemail.

"What the hell?" he mutters, staring down at his phone to make sure he called the right number. He tries again, just to be certain, but the same thing happens.

It's definitely weird but for the moment, there's nothing he can really do. He builds his bank account back up, dollar by dollar. He graduates and, every so often, he combs through the obituaries, looking for Henry's face.

It never pops up.

+

“Man, these things taste terrible,” Glenn mutters, tossing his cigarette over the edge of the balcony they're sitting on. It's the first one he's ever had, and he plans on making it his last. Daryl can do all the smoking for the two of them; he even looks cool when he's doing it. 

“You get used to them,” Daryl says, wiping ashes off Glenn's knee. Much as Glenn likes the suits he gets to wear most days, it feels good to be in his own clothes again, just a t-shirt and jeans. He knows that Daryl feels the same. While the older man never says anything about being uncomfortable while he's dressed up, it's easy enough to tell from the set of his shoulders and the way he's constantly picking at his cuffs or his tie. He looks far more relaxed now, in jeans with the knees torn out and a flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped off.

“Do you ever think about quitting?” Glenn asks quietly, shifting a little closer to Daryl. “Maybe doing something else?” It's a dangerous question, but he isn't afraid to ask it.

“Nah. Not in the cards,” Daryl says. He scratches at the massive tattoo playing peek-a-boo on his shoulder blade, the Dixon family crest. “Why? Do you?” He says it quietly, like he's afraid Merle is hiding just around the corner. Glenn shakes his head.

“No,” he says, gazing down at his own tattoo. It's still itchy and sore, staring up at him from his forearm. The colors are almost blindingly vivid, in direct contrast to the faded tones of Daryl's. He forces himself not to scratch at it. “Not anymore.”

-

Atlanta is in the early stages of summer when the first phone call comes.

When Glenn turns his phone back on after his shift, he has a voicemail. He presumes it's just his parents; they've been badgering him to find a real job or go back to medical school and he's sick of it. But the number is one he doesn't recognize. When he listens to the message, his blood goes cold.

_You owe us money. A thousand by Friday._

It's only eight words but they make Glenn sick and confused. The voice is definitely Henry's, but why did he say us? Why is he suddenly back on the map after being MIA for months?

Glenn doesn't have a thousand dollars anymore. Between paying his rent and paying for his car to get fixed after unexpectedly breaking down, he barely has enough to eat. His credit card is almost maxed out and asking his parents is not an option.

He calls the number back but it goes straight to automated voicemail. He leaves a message anyways.

“Look, Henry, I've been trying to find you for months. I don't have all the money right now, but I can give you two hundred now and work on the rest later. You said that a little bit at a time was fine. I'm sorry, man, I had it all for you but you just disappeared. Call me back when you get this, alright?”

He manages to keep his voice steady and fairly chipper, like he's not bothered by the situation at all. But his hands are shaking so hard that it takes him three times to press the end call button.

How the fuck did he let this happen?

+

“How did you get that one?”

There's early morning light streaming through the window but for Glenn and Daryl, their night is just beginning to wind down. They've made it to bed, but not to sleep, and Glenn is staring at a spherical scar on Daryl's hand, right below his knuckles. His fingers are hovering right above it but he doesn't dare touch the pale flesh, not yet.

“Merle,” Daryl mumbles. Glenn is completely unsurprised by this. What he _is_ surprised about is that Daryl continues to talk. “When we were kids, Pa was always puttin' these stories in our head. Tellin' us what would happen if we ever got picked up by one of the other families. Said they'd torture us.”

“And Merle?” Glenn prompts. Daryl keeps staring at the ceiling, his other arm tucked under his head.

“Merle thought that if we went through it ahead of time, we'd last longer when they grabbed us. Stuck a lit cigarette against my hand while he said that. Fuckin' smell was awful.” Glenn stays silent; it's far from the most fucked up thing Daryl has told him about his brother. Instead, he scoots further up the bed and lets his fingers hover over another circular scar, dotting the inside of Daryl's bicep. This one is fresher, still red and raw around the edges.

“Was that Merle too?” Daryl's eyes flick away from the ceiling and a muscle in his jaw twitches when he shakes his head.

“Nah,” he mutters, looking down at the scar. “I did that.”

-

The second phone call comes Friday morning.

After Glenn picks it up, nobody speaks. There's simply the sound of breathing on the other end of the line. Glenn takes it for as long as he can before he breaks with a frustrated groan.

“Look, Henry, or whatever your name is, I'm sorry. I don't know if you got the message I left you, but there's no way I can have all the money ready by today. I just don't have it. But I can give you two hundred now, if you tell me where to meet.” The breathing continues for a long time, so long that Glenn has to physically bite his tongue to stop himself from speaking again.

“One more week,” Henry says. “Fifteen hundred by this time next Friday, or we'll send someone to collect it from you.”

“What?” Glenn yells. “Fifteen hundred? That's-”

He's interrupted by a click as Henry hangs up.

+

“Tonight.”

“What?” Glenn asks. He's standing at a table, glancing over a massive ledger.

“Tonight,” Daryl repeats, mouth furled around a cigarette. “Need you to come with me. There's someone we have to go see.”

“I thought Merle said-”

“I don't care what Merle said,” Daryl snaps. He mashes his smoke into the nearest ashtray and crosses the room in three strides, boots slamming against the floor. “You ain't his.”

“Oh?” Glenn says, leaning against the nearest wall. “Then whose am I?” Daryl steps even closer, scarred fingers wrapping around Glenn's wrists. Glenn is pretty sure that he could get away if he tried, but he doesn't want to move. A shiver goes down his spine and he tilts his head back against the wall, anticipating Daryl's answer.

“Mine,” he growls. He ducks his head and presses his teeth into the bared skin of Glenn's throat. He doesn't break the skin, but he leaves another bruise on already-marked skin. Glenn has to keep himself from yanking Daryl even closer. There will be plenty of time for that later, after they get back. When Daryl backs away, his eyes are even darker than usual.

Once upon a time, Glenn found Daryl's eyes to be terrifying. Now, they just make him shiver again.

“Later,” Daryl murmurs darkly, rubbing Glenn's bruised neck with his thumb. Glenn nods.

“Later.”

-

Glenn spends the next week with a sense of impending dread weighing on his shoulders.

He takes as many shifts as he can. It's a desperate attempt to make more money but every time he takes a call, that dread spreads across his entire body like water. He starts taking a baseball bat with him, stashing it within easy reach as he goes on his delivery runs. When he gets back to his apartment, he carries it with him over one shoulder, trying to look as casual as possible while he peers into every dark alley or corner, waiting for someone to rush him.

As soon as he's inside, he flicks the deadbolt and pushes his kitchen table against the door. It's a flimsy attempt at security, but at the least, it'll make enough noise to wake him up.

But that's only if he's sleeping. Glenn doesn't remember the last time he slept properly. He jolts awake at the slightest noise and curses the thin walls of his building. He almost never sleeps past the crack of dawn. Every morning, as soon as he's conscious enough to do so, he grabs a clear jar from underneath his couch and dumps it out onto the battered coffee table nearby. It contains the tips he's been collecting since he started the job, along with some money he made from selling some of his movies and video games.

It grows a little bit each day. But it's not going to be enough.

+

The concrete underneath Glenn's knees is damp. With each second that ticks by, he can feel more and more water soaking the fabric of his trousers. It makes shivers of cold go up his spine, but they're outnumbered by the far more pleasurable shivers that come every time Daryl tugs at his hair. Daryl's still in his business clothes but they're in disarray, smudged and filthy. Glenn wants to rip them off, but that will have to wait until they're back at Daryl's apartment. 

But Glenn couldn't wait half an hour before sinking to his knees and tearing at Daryl's belt. He could barely wait until they were out of the conference room. It's stupid and risky, truly; the cops are liable to be showing up any moment now. Even though they'll surely be cops on Daryl and Merle's payroll, Glenn is still sure that he doesn't want to be around when they discover the carnage that's on the other side of the wall that Daryl's leaning up against.

He's sure that Daryl is sure of that as well. But he doesn't try to stop Glenn. Instead, he just pushes his calloused, scarred fingers into Glenn's hair, gripping it tightly. He groans _fuck_ in a voice roughened by cigarettes, a voice that has been making Glenn shudder nearly from the first time he heard it.

Glenn's hands are braced on Daryl's thighs, just brushing over a tattoo that looks like it was done in prison. He can still smell gunpowder clinging to his fingers and his ears are still ringing slightly.

They finish up just in time to hear sirens in the distance.

-

By Thursday night, the sense of impending dread has upgraded to paralyzing terror.

Glenn calls in sick to work. Technically, it isn't a lie; he's so tired that he can barely differentiate between what is reality and what is paranoia. After he hangs up, he tosses his phone aside and goes back to staring at the money laid out on his coffee table. He's counted it four times and has come up with the same number each time.

He's still nearly six hundred dollars short.

For a few hours, he thinks about getting a payday loan, from one of the places they constantly advertise on the television. But he manages to reel his impulses in and do the math; unless he hits up at least three different places, he still won't have enough money.

He glances over at his phone again, nearly hidden under a pillow. All it would take is pressing a few buttons to talk to his parents. He's sure that he could come with a lie that would convince them to send him enough money to cover Henry's demands.

Or maybe he could spend the money on a plane ticket. He has a valid passport and he's always wanted to see Italy. Hell, he's heard that Alaska is nice too, so long as you have a parka.

He leaves the phone where it is. Instead, he counts the money for a fifth time.

+

Glenn's arms are going to give out any moment now.

There's a little light coming through the ratty curtains over Daryl's window. It's enough for Glenn to see the outline of his splayed fingers against Daryl's mussed-up sheets. His head is lolling between his shoulders and his hair is plastered to his forehead, damp with both water and sweat.

Aside from an occasional curse word or muffled groan, Daryl is remarkably quiet. But his actions speak louder than words. His blunt nails press into Glenn's hips and his teeth scrape along the column of his neck, leaving marks Glenn knows he won't be able to hide come morning. He moves slower than Glenn expects; he takes his time, hips slowly rolling forward. It's fucking torturous and while Glenn would appreciate that any other time, it has been a ridiculous, unbelievable day. He wants to feel something. He's going to sob if Daryl doesn't start moving, but he can't quite force any words past his mouth.

“Jesus, Glenn,” Daryl groans, his rough lips catching on the shell of Glenn's ear. What follows next is the longest sentence Glenn has heard Daryl say in hours. “Almost dragged you out of the shower. Took too fucking long.” His teeth scrape against Glenn's earlobe and, just like that, Glenn's shaking arms finally give out. He drops down to his elbows and the change in angle is exactly what he needs.

So, of course, Daryl completely stops moving.

“You alright?”

“Daryl, don't you _dare_ ,” Glenn hisses, looking back over his shoulder as best as he can. “Please.” Daryl stays still for a few more excruciating moments. When he finally starts moving again, Glenn groans, rolling his forehead against the mattress.

When he wakes up, he's still in Daryl's bed, but Daryl's nowhere to be found. His entire body feels like it's been beaten and he can't raise his arms without wincing. He collapses back against the pillows and that's when he spies the glass of water on the bedside table. There's two tiny white pills as well and he swallows them before lying back down.

Glenn wonders if Daryl would mind if he borrowed his shower again. He wonders if he can time it so that he's under the hot water when Daryl gets back from whatever he's doing.

He wonders if Daryl will drag him back to bed.

-

Friday brings with it a clear blue sky, dotted with massive, cotton candy like clouds. Glenn opens his eyes to a living room filled with warm light and blinding sunshine. 

He wants to tell it all to fuck off. This is not a day for sun. This is a day for thunderstorms.

This is the day that he dies. Or at least loses a limb. He hopes they go that route, and he hopes that they settle for some of his toes or fingers. He could live with that.

It's not too late to run. If he leaves now and drives without stopping, he can be at his parent's house just after midnight. Alternatively, there are plenty of motels along the way, sketchy places with no security cameras. He could hole up there for a few days, maybe call the cops and let them know what's going on.

He forces the idea out of his head. It's too late to run. He has no doubt that he's being watched, eyed up and toyed with. They'll know if he runs and they'll be able to follow, whether it's across the Canadian border or back to his parent's house in Michigan.

They don't deserve to get dragged into this mess. He did this. He was foolish and careless and he didn't think. If he'd just sucked things up and called them when he first lost his job, everything would be okay.

He's not going to let them get hurt. This is his fault. He's going to deal with it the best way he can.

He calls in sick to work again. He pulls the curtains tight, brews a pot of coffee and sits on his couch, baseball bat across his lap.

He waits.

+

Daryl has been staring at him the whole night.

On the surface, there's nothing really unusual about it; Daryl has been staring at Glenn from the first night they met. Whenever Glenn isn't looking, he can feel Daryl's eyes burning on the back of the neck. But the instinctual wariness and curiosity that Daryl used to treat him with is long gone. So too is the grudging admiration.

Now, it's just want. It's _been_ want for a few weeks now, but it's never been as strong as it is tonight. Glenn feels like Daryl is trying to pin him down, just by using his eyes.

If Glenn wasn't so focused on the task at hand, it would be downright distracting. As is, he simply remains aware of it, prickling on the nape of his neck like phantom fingers.

After everything has been said and done, Glenn climbs into the passenger seat of Daryl's truck and leans his head against the dashboard. His arms are throbbing with pain and his lungs are heaving against his ribcage. After a few moments, he manages to get his breathing regulated and he leans back against the seat, letting his eyes drop closed.

He wants nothing more than a steaming hot shower and a bed to sleep in.

The driver's side door creaks open a few minutes later but Daryl doesn't start the truck right away. When Glenn looks up, Daryl is blatantly staring at him, thin lips wrapped around a cigarette.

“What?” Glenn asks, immediately flushing. Although Daryl told him to dispense with protocol weeks ago, to not refer to him as sir or Mr. Dixon or any of that shit, Glenn can't help but feel like he's slipped up when he talks so informally.

“You're a mess,” Daryl mutters, averting his gaze towards the window.

“You're not wrong,” Glenn sighs, pushing his sweaty hair away from his forehead. “Can you drop me off?”

“My place is closer.” Glenn's face flushes again and the warmth spreads to the rest of his body. It won't be the first time he's ever been to Daryl's apartment, but he's never been there for a reason unrelated to business.

There's no doubt in Glenn's mind that Daryl isn't interested in conducting any more business tonight. Nor, for that matter, is Glenn.

“You got a shower at your place?” he asks, hoping that the blood on his face masks his flush. Daryl nods and takes another drag off his cigarette before tossing it out the window.

“Yeah,” he says simply, twisting the key in the ignition. As they pull out of the alley, Glenn lets his eyes close as he sags back against the seat, sore arms throbbing.

It's going to be a few days before he'll be able to swing a bat again.

-

The phone call comes just after seven.

He's on his third pot of coffee. Every last one of his nerves feels frayed and his phone's ringtone makes him jump and snatch the baseball bat from his lap. He's still breathing heavily when he answers. His palms are slick with sweat.

He doesn't say a word. He just waits and finally, the breathing on the other end of the line turns into words, spoken by a rough-edged voice that sounds nothing like Henry.

“Do you have the money?”

“No.” Glenn doesn't bother to beat around the bush or beg. He has just under nine hundred dollars. It isn't enough. For a few seconds, he only hears more breathing. Then, there's a click and the line goes dead. Glenn tosses his cell phone back against the couch cushions, drains his mug and settles the bat across his lap again. His arms are shaking. His eyes feel like they're going to bug out of his head.

The kitchen table is firmly pressed against his front door and all the windows are locked. He doesn't know what direction they'll be coming from, but it's only a matter of time.

He pours another cup of tepid coffee. He waits.

+

When Daryl bursts into the room, Glenn is running money through a counting machine. It's one of the duties he's gained over the last few months of being in the Dixon's employment. Sure, he still drives them around or goes on food runs but, more often than not, they send him to pick up money from their various enterprises, dotted across the city. 

He brings the money back to Daryl's apartment and counts it, both manually and with the use of the machine. At first, Daryl had watched him like a hawk. He sat in the corner of the room, cigarette smoke wafting around his head, small dark eyes trained on Glenn's hands.

But now, he's more lax about it. Sometimes, he pulls Glenn into stilted conversation while Glenn sorts through the stacks. Sometimes, he sips a beer or flips through the paper, sitting on the other side of the table rather than in the corner of the room.

Sometimes, he leaves to take phone calls. Not for one instant does Glenn think about slipping even a twenty into his wallet. The Dixons pay him more than enough and he is not into biting the hand that feeds him.

When Daryl throws open the door of the room, Glenn is just finishing up. He glances up and is completely taken aback by what he sees. He's seen Daryl mad before, of course; hell, hardly a single week goes by where he isn't privy to the Dixon brothers duking it out over some aspect of their business. But this goes beyond mere anger or frustration. Daryl's face is twisted into absolute rage.

“That fucking prick!” he yells, swiping a stack of bills off the table. “Goddamn piece of shit!” Another stack of bills explodes into the air. That's followed by Daryl slamming his fist into the wall. When he turns around, his chest is heaving. He pushes his hair out of his eyes and Glenn feels his blood run cold.

There are actual tears glistening in Daryl's eyes.

Glenn doesn't dare say anything. He sits and waits until Daryl has calmed down a little. Eventually, Daryl pulls a cigarette from his pocket and jams it into his mouth. It takes three tries for him to get a flame with his lighter.

“Fucking piece of shit,” he growls again. He looks at Glenn, like he's just now realizing that he isn't alone in the room. “You're coming with me.”

“Okay,” Glenn says, dropping his half-counted stack of bills onto the table and following Daryl out of the room. Daryl stops at the closet in the hall and starts rummaging through its contents, tossing aside discarded suit jackets and mud-streaked boots.

“I told him no fucking kids,” Daryl says. Glenn doesn't know if he's the one being addressed, or if Daryl is talking to himself. “No kids get hurt, ever.” He finally finds what he's looking for and when he emerges from the closet, Glenn feels his stomach start churning.

“Fuckin' pervert needs to be taught a lesson,” Daryl mutters. “Wanna do it?”

“What?” Glenn says, glancing from Daryl to the object he's holding in his hands. “Seriously?” Daryl nods, lips tightening around his cigarette. Glenn's stomach continues to churn but it's not all from fear. Revulsion, yes; he knows how staunch Daryl and Merle both are in their views about children, that they are not to be touched or harmed. If Daryl says someone needs to be taught a lesson, Glenn believes them. But can he do it?

Two months ago, it may have taken hours for him to decide. But now, the answer comes into his head clear as day.

 _Yes._ He can do it, and he will.

-

At midnight, they come for him.

As soon as he hears the heavy footsteps coming down the hallway, he tightens his fingers around the neck of this bat. The footsteps stop outside his door and for a few moments, there's nothing but silence. Glenn's fingers are slick with sweat. When he swallows, he tastes bile.

The knock completely throws him off. It sounds like someone just barely rapping their knuckles against the wood. Seconds later, it comes again, a little louder this time, but still more of a rap than a thud.

There is no third knock.

Instead, there's a resounding crack. Splinters go flying through the air and the doorknob falls to the ground with a heavy thud. The second crack makes Glenn's table go skating across the floor. The door, now hanging crooked on its hinges, creaks open and Glenn leaps to his feet, holding his baseball bat back against his shoulder.

Two men step into his apartment, boots kicking at the wreckage wrought by their destruction of the door. Although it's been months since he saw the first man's face, Glenn still recognizes it all too well. Henry still looks the same, albeit with a few more gray hairs. His mouth is set in a stern frown but his eyes are practically sparkling, in a way that makes more fear settle in Glenn's brain.

But Henry's nothing compared to the second man who walks in. His age is difficult to gauge; all Glenn can say with certainty is that he's younger than Henry. He has a deeply lined face, the bottom half of which is covered in a thick beard. His long, black hair is pulled back into a ponytail and he's holding something behind his back. He takes one look at Glenn and immediately starts laughing. It's a rollicking sound, from his stomach and that makes Glenn's throat go dry.

“Well isn't that cute,” he chuckles, glancing at Henry with a raised eyebrow. He turns back to Glenn and when he reveals what's behind his back, an absolutely savage grin spreads across his face.

Glenn's baseball bat slips from between his slick fingers. The sound of it hitting the carpet seems like it's a thousand miles away.

+

For the first few weeks, Glenn drives. That's it. It's easy enough to do; he knows the city like the back of his hand. He knows shortcuts and side streets to take during rush hour. He knows how to cut off a commute by half an hour and he knows which areas of town to avoid if you don't want glass or a nail in your tire. 

It's exactly like his pizza delivery days except now, more often than not, he's delivering people. Daryl calls him most mornings and gives him a time and a place before hanging up. Without fail, Glenn meets him there, pulling up in the car they provided him with. It's a car that still contains the lingering scents of gunpowder and mold, but it runs well and he doesn't have to pay for gas, so he's more than happy to try to mask the scents with an air freshener hung from the rear-view mirror.

Once he picks Daryl up, he drives wherever he's told. Sometimes they hit up a dozen different places before lunch; sometimes, Daryl has him drive an hour into the country, down twisting roads to old houses that look like they're ready to collapse.

Thankfully, wherever they go, Daryl never stays long. He's in and out in only a matter of minutes and they continue to the next place, in silence, because Daryl almost never talks. He smokes cigarette after cigarette and yanks at his tie so often that the thing usually ends up on the floor by mid afternoon. Occasionally, he twists at his hair, brown, marked with the first hints of gray, brushing against his collar. When he does ask Glenn a question, words falling out of his mouth in a drawl, it comes as such a surprise that Glenn nearly always jumps.

But while Daryl's silence sometimes makes Glenn want to squirm, it's better than the alternative.

Thankfully, Glenn doesn't have to deal with Merle too often. But at least once every two weeks, he gets a call from the older Dixon brother. On those days, Glenn makes sure to drink a lot of coffee, because there is absolutely no telling how long it'll be before Merle lets him go home. Merle makes him drive across town to a specific burger joint. He goes to business meetings and makes Glenn wait outside. The worst days are the ones where Merle wants to go see one of his girlfriends. Sometimes, it's hours before he comes back out, face plastered with a shit-eating grin.

After the first two times this happens, where Glenn spends half the day bored out of his skull, he starts stashing comic books in the glove compartment.

But the worst part of all, beyond the constant whizzing back and forth and the waiting, is that Merle Dixon never shuts his mouth. All he does is talk, about everything and anything; politics, hunting, the latest blockbuster. He spouts bigoted views like they're gospel and he talks about his business in ways Glenn is almost certain he isn't supposed to know about.

At the end of the day, when they're back to wherever Merle wants to be dropped off, Merle always falls silent. He stops and looks at Glenn, mouth spread in a cruel smirk.

When it matters most, Merle doesn't need to say a word. Glenn knows exactly what that look means.

He much prefers the way Daryl looks at him.

-

Glenn comes to in a moving vehicle. The first thing he notices is the pain encompassing the entire right side of his head. He raises his hands, intending to gently probe at the area where the pain's strongest, but that's when he notices something else. 

His hands are bound, in front of him. When he shifts his wrists slightly, he can feel strong adhesive threatening to rip out the hair on his arms. He's pretty sure that it's duct tape, but he can't tell for certain, because there's something covering his eyes. After another moment, he realizes it's covering his entire head. It's some kind of hood, tied around his neck, thick enough to keep him in a world of complete darkness. He attempts to raise his hands again but before they can even get out of his lap, massive fingers wrap around his wrists.

“Don't be so damn impatient, Glenn. We'll let you know when it's time for you to wake up.”

The voice is muffled, like Glenn's hearing it through static. Before he can figure out who it belongs to, a hand grasps the left side of his head and pushes, causing his already-injured face to smash into the window.

Pain blossoms behind his eyelids, bright and vibrant as fireworks. He drifts away again.

+

Glenn feels like he's going to pass out.

He doesn't know where he is, not exactly. The last hour or so is a blur in his memory. The last thing he remembers with any real clarity is being shoved into the passenger seat of a pickup truck. After that, there's only bits and pieces. There are flashes of lights out the window, glimpses of street signs, a throbbing in the wrists.

Now, he's sitting in a room with blank walls. Aside from the chair he's sitting in, the only other piece of furniture is a table, covered in scratches and gouges. He crosses his arms on the table and rests his forehead against them. Somewhere nearby, he can hear two men yelling. While one of the voices is familiar, the other is completely new.

“What in the fuck were you thinking?” the new voice yells. The man has a heavy Georgian accent, more of a drawl than anything. “Jesus Daryl, what if the fucking kid talks?”

“I ain't apologizing. 'sides, he won't talk. I know he won't.”

“I'm just supposed to believe you?”

“Merle, I clean up my own fucking messes. The kid ain't gonna say shit. I'm gonna give him a job.”

“ _What_?” the other man roars. “You can't just-”

“Just fillin' a hole on the payroll,” Daryl says. “Gonna need a new errand boy.” Heavy footsteps approach and Glenn slowly lifts his head, staring at the still-closed door. He can't believe it's only been a few hours since he last heard booted footsteps approaching him. It feels like it's been _days_.

“Is this 'cause you got the hots for him? Some kind of twink thing?” The words are followed by a cruel chuckle. Glenn's sure that he's hallucinating; the comment comes so far out of left field that it can't be real.

“It's got fuck all to do with that!”

Glenn drops his head back down, wincing as pain spikes near his temple. He closes his eyes; keeping them open is too much effort.

A few minutes later (or maybe it's an hour, he really doesn't know), the sound of the door opening stirs Glenn from his doze. Daryl, the man from earlier, is alone now, dragging another battered wooden chair behind him. The scent of smoke and leather rolls off him as soon as he walks in. He leaves the door open, sits down opposite Glenn, and pulls a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of the leather vest he's wearing over a long-sleeved flannel shirt.

“Want one?” he asks gruffly, pulling one out for himself.

“Don't smoke,” Glenn rasps. He doesn't know how long it's been since he last spoke. His throat feels like a desert. Daryl lights up one of the smokes and fixes his eyes on a point just over Glenn's shoulder. It's _almost_ eye contact, but not quite. Daryl stays quiet for a long time and Glenn doesn't try to fill the silence between them. He simply sits, scraping dirt and blood from underneath his fingers.

“What do you do?” Daryl finally asks. Glenn shrugs; the action makes his head throb again.

“Deliver pizzas. Why?”

“Want another job? Pays better.”

“Are you going to kill me if I say no?” Daryl glares at him, but it doesn't seem like a threat. He mainly just looks _offended_. When he shakes his head, tendrils of brown hair fall across his forehead.

“Nah. Don't like killing people. Not 'less I have to.” That doesn't seem like a threat either. Glenn takes a moment to mull the situation over. All it would take is a _no_ to go back to his old life. He could go back to living in his cramped apartment, to living paycheck to paycheck, to feeding lies to his parents when they call. He could go back to normalcy and predictability.

Or. He could start anew. Wipe the slate clean. Try things again. Not make stupid mistakes. Be _better_ this time.

Finally, just as Daryl stubs his cigarette out, Glenn catches his eye and nods.

“When do you want me to start?”

+-

Whoever rips the hood off Glenn's head tears out some of his hair as well. It's just another spark of pain, added to the dozens of others already plaguing his body. After being in the dark so long, even the dim light above seems blinding. He blinks half a dozen times before he can actually make out any details of his surroundings. 

He's been forced into a kneeling position, on the grimy floor of an alleyway. Brick walls rise on either side of him and there are a few, half-dead lights over some of the doorways close by. It doesn't look like the area is heavily trafficked. There's litter strewn all over the place and the air reeks of rotting garbage.

But it also reeks of something else. When Glenn looks down at the ground, he realizes what it is.

The pavement in front of him is stained black, with what he knows to be blood.

“Look, Glenn.” The voice comes from behind him and Glenn twists around, glancing back over his shoulder. The other man, the one that he knows is going to be doing the dirty work, is grinning savagely again. He's still holding the weapon he displayed back in Glenn's apartment; it's an ordinary wooden baseball bat, wrapped with coils of rusted barbed wire. Even as he continues to speak, he idly swings it back and forth in front of him, like he's practicing for a home-run competition.

“Glenn, I want you to know that this isn't anything personal,” the man says, shrugging his massive shoulders. “Well, I mean, not technically. You never did anything to _me_ , but Henry here? He's a friend of mine and I owe him a favor. He told me that you owe him money and never planned on paying up-”

“That's a goddamn lie!” Glenn yells. His voice echoes off the surrounding walls, as does the _thud_ that occurs when the man drives the handle of the baseball bat into the side of his head. The impact knocks Glenn onto his side; he just narrowly manages to avoid smacking his temple off the ground.

“It's rude to interrupt, you know,” the man continues, grabbing the back of Glenn's shirt and hauling him back up to his knees. “Anyways, Henry says you didn't try to pay him back and I gotta say, I trust his word more than I trust yours.” There's blood trickling down the side of Glenn's head, flowing over his ear. The pain is unbelievable, but he forces himself to move past it.

He hasn't heard Henry speak yet. He twists his head, scanning the alley while the other man continues to ramble on. While he looks, Glenn tries to surreptitiously yank at the layers of duct tape wrapped around his wrists. He tries not to wince as the strong adhesive tears away more of the hair on his arms. Finally, he spots Henry, half-hidden in the shadows a few feet away. Glenn can't make out his face but he has a feeling, a feeling that sickens him more than the impending certainty of his own death.

“You're getting off on this, aren't you?” he yells, continuing to yank at the tape. This time, he feels it give, just a little bit. “I know you are, you sick fuck!”

“Well Glenn, I think that just about does it for you,” the other man says, adjusting his grip on the neck of the bat. That savage grin hasn't dissipated in the least. “Any last words?”

“Negan!” This voice is completely new; Glenn whips his head back around to see a man standing at the mouth of the alley, a few yards away. He looks like he'd be more at home hunting deer; he's wearing a vest over a flannel shirt, ripped jeans and boots. Even more bizarre is the fact that he has a crossbow slung over his back. He comes closer, eyes nearly hidden underneath his long hair.

“What are you doing? Who the hell is that?” the man asks, waving a hand in Henry's direction. His voice is gruff, definitely that of a pack-a-day smoker.

“Nothing much, Daryl. Just some freelance stuff. Owed a buddy a-”

“ _Freelance_?” the man snaps, spitting off to the side. “You've been doin' this freelance stuff a lot?”

“Once in awhile. It isn't a big deal.”

“The hell it ain't!” Glenn yanks at the tape again; it gives even more. After only a second of hesitation, he brings his hands up as high as he can and starts tearing at the tape with his teeth. He doesn't try to be sneaky about it. What the worst that will happen if he gets caught? They can't kill him twice.

“We talked about this shit,” the man with the crossbow (Daryl, if what Negan said was right) says. “ _Merle_ talked to you about this shit months ago.”

“He owes me money,” Henry says. Glenn hardly notices; he's choking on the chemical taste of adhesive, but he keeps gnawing and yanking at the tape.

“Really?” Daryl sneers. “How much?”

“Two grand.” It's an exaggeration, but Glenn doesn't bother attempting to correct him. Daryl reaches inside his vest and pulls out a wad of bills. He peels a few away and tosses them onto the floor of the alley, like they're no more important than scraps of paper.

“There. Fucking problem solved,” he says, shoving the rest of the bills back into his pocket. “Leave the kid alone and get the fuck out of here.”

“Look, I don't know who are you, but that isn't how this works,” Henry says, voice rising with indignation. Glenn can hear his footsteps moving closer. “I-”

“Take one more step, and I'll show you how it fucking works.” Daryl seems to move in the blink of an eye; his crossbow is now in his hands and there's a bolt aimed right at Henry. “Negan, tell that asshole to back the fuck off.”

Glenn's mouth is bone-dry, thick with the taste of the adhesive from the tape. But he's already gotten through three of the layers; there's just one more between him and freedom, and it gives more and more with each second.

“ _Asshole_?” Henry roars. Out of the corner of his eye, Glenn sees Henry move. That's followed by a glint of metal.

“Henry, wait!”

The next few seconds seem more like hours.

As the air explodes with noise, the final layer of tape around Glenn's wrists snaps. Before the echo of the gunshot dies away, Glenn hears a _snick_ , followed by a wet squelch. He glances sideways, rubbing at his raw wrists, just in time to see Henry's body hit the pavement. There's a bolt buried in his forehead and his fingers twitch once, twice, three times. Before he can look away, that _snick_ sound comes again. This time, Negan bellows in pain. Glenn hears the sound of Negan's bat bouncing off the ground inches away from him, metal clinging off the pavement.

He doesn't think.

He spins around on his knees and grabs the neck of the baseball bat before it can bounce a second time. As he jumps to his feet, he barely notices that there's another bolt through Negan's shoulder. It's not important.

His first swing connects with the meaty part of Negan's thigh. The man roars, hands flailing ineffectively, like he's not sure which wound to press down on. Glenn's second swing hits in the same spot but this time, the barbed wire scrapes against Negan's fingers, immediately drawing blood.

“You _fuckers_!” Negan hollers. He takes a lurching step towards Glenn, but his leg buckles underneath him, spilling him to the blood-speckled pavement. He curses again and manages to get back to his knees before Glenn swings again, catching the bigger man in the shoulder. Negan curses again, but it ends in a watery, guttural groan, as Glenn's fourth swing slams into Negan's ribs, hard enough for a brittle _crack_ to echo through the alley.

After that, he loses count.

His fingers grow slick. Warm blood streaks down his face, mixed in with sweat and tears that feel like fire. The pieces of torn duct tape fall off his wrists, leaving globs of adhesive behind. His arms throb. He's only semi-aware of dropping to his knees when his shaking legs abruptly give out.

He just keeps swinging.

He doesn't realize he was screaming until his voice gives out as well. Only then does time seem to start again. He comes back to himself, throat raw. When he sucks in a long, wavering breath, it feels like he's swallowing glass. When he licks his lips, he tastes blood. He doesn't know whose it is.

The bat drops to the ground with a clatter. His chest heaves and his hands shake. The body lying in front of him is unrecognizable. Negan's long hair fans across the ground, clotted with blood. The side of his head is caved in and there are white bits of skull littering the ground around him. His clothes are ripped, revealing other wounds all over his body. His hands are torn to shreds and in a few spots, Glen can see bone peeking out from beneath flaps of skin.

It should make him sick. His stomach _does_ lurch a little bit, but he's seen movies where this happens. He's supposed to be throwing up, bawling his eyes out, whimpering that it was an accident, that he didn't mean to do it.

But that wouldn't be true. Yes, Negan _was_ going to kill him, but he didn't have to return the favor. He could have stopped after the fourth swing. Hell, he could have stopped after the _first_ swing.

But he didn't. And maybe it's still his fight-or-flight reflex working in overdrive, but Glenn doesn't think he should have stopped.

How many others did Henry and Negan bring here? How many times did Negan make someone kneel on the cold, damp concrete? How many people felt their lives ebb away, knowing that there was someone in the shadows getting off on their misery?

How many _more_ would there have been?

“Kid.”

Truth be told, Glenn almost forgot about the other man standing in the alley. He glances back over his shoulder, shoving his damp hair away from his forehead. Daryl's shouldered his crossbow again and his gaze is leveled at Negan's body. He doesn't look too distraught about the fact that his associate's body is rapidly cooling. Before he speaks again, he pulls a cigarette out of his vest and lights it up.

“What's your name?” he asks, jamming his lighter back into the pocket of his threadbare jeans.

“Glenn.” There's no point in lying about it. While his entire body is pulsing with pain, his breathing has finally started to slow. “Yours is Daryl, right?” Daryl nods. When he takes a pull on his cigarette, his skin stretches taut over his cheekbones.

“Come with me,” he mutters around his smoke. “Don't worry 'bout the body. Got some people who can come clean it up.” Glenn doesn't respond; he has no idea who this guy is or where he came from. He doesn't know if going with him is a great idea, or even a good one.

But what other options does he have? He's covered in Negan's blood and he has no idea what part of the city he's in. There's no way he can get back home without being noticed by somebody, no matter how late it is. Even if he _did_ manage, his DNA is all over the place. There is no part of this that ends with him getting off free and clear.

Unless he goes with Daryl.

When Glenn looks behind him, Daryl is already walking towards the mouth of the alley. Smoke trails over his shoulder. He doesn't look back. Glenn, however, does. He twists back around to look at the two bodies, lying still and bloody on the ground. 

_I did this_ he tells himself. He doesn't feel shame or even remorse. Not yet. Instead, he feels something disturbingly akin to pride.

Months ago, he made a mistake. Now, he's fixed it.

He slowly gets back to his feet. On second thought, even though bending down makes his head throb violently, he grabs the bat from the ground. He doesn't know why he does it. He doesn't ask himself that question.

“You comin' or what?” Daryl yells.

Glenn follows after him, barbed wire scraping against his jeans. This time, he doesn't look back.

&.

Although it's been nearly a year since he vacated that role, Glenn Rhee still has the face of a college student.

He has none of the wrinkles or pockmarks that dot Daryl's face. There's no stubble dotting his cheeks and his hair is still inky-black, no grays in sight. His nose is a little more crooked than it used to be but, if anyone asked, it would be easy enough to concoct a story of a youthful misadventure to explain that. Even the dark hickies dotting the otherwise pale column of his neck add to his appearance as a student.

But to the gagged men who find themselves kneeling on grimy alley floors, it doesn't matter how young or fresh faced he looks. As soon as they see him appear, stepping out from behind Daryl or slipping through a door, even the most hardened of them start to tremble with fear. When they catch sight of the baseball bat, wrapped with sprigs of bared wire, that's slung over his shoulder, snot drips from their nose and guttural moans drift past their gags.

To them, Glenn's physical appearance doesn't matter, but his existence means everything. It means they've fucked up one time too many. It means they touched someone they weren't supposed to touch. It means that the sand in their hourglasses has run out.

It means death.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
